At The End Of The World
by uncorazonquebrado
Summary: They're both aching for the same thing, and searching for ways to make sure they never get it. Chuck and Effy, a conversation and a hint of Chuck/Blair.


_**A/N** I've been catching up on season three of Skins (reminding myself of why I was addicted to that show before..and still am) and this is what came from it._

_Set during Chuck's trip to Europe in 2x25 of GG, and 3x10 of Skins._

_No pairing, just Chuck and Effy with implied Chuck/Blair_

_Thanks to Robin for looking this over for me!_

_**Disclaimer**: I own nothing._

* * *

Unfamiliar house music is blasting from the speakers and does nothing to improve his mood as he stares absentmindedly into the amber liquid in his tumbler.

He takes another sip from the glass in his hand and rests his head against the backrest of the couch he's been slumped in for the last hours, watching the people in the club dance themselves into a sweaty, frenzied escape. The alcohol burns its way down his throat; warmth temporarily spreading like spider web in his chest.

It feels like he's reached the end of the world. There's nothing for him here and while that seemed perfect a few days ago, the lack of something – _anything_ - is beginning to tear at him.

He wouldn't be able to give directions to this town - vaguely remembers a cab and more than a few pound notes changing owner - but he knows how to get there nonetheless. Turn 180 degrees at '...because I love you', hurry past '…it was just a game' and turn left at 'tell me it was for something'.

His gaze travels from the liquid in his glass to the dance floor - taking him from the pretence of indifference and normalcy to an overwhelming sense of _wrong_.

What the hell is he doing here?

The question burns in his throat and the air inside the busy club is suddenly too hot.

He needs to get out. Away. He's so sick of nothing and nowhere and '…it's not anymore'.

He drains the glass in a vain attempt to wet his parched throat, and it's when he slams the glass down on the grimy table in front of him that he spots her.

The girl is dancing in the middle of the dance floor, arms in the air, head thrown back and eyes closed. She's not really there. Hiding and demanding attention all at once. He takes in the smudged make up, slightly uncoordinated movements and the cheap leather jacket.

He notices the guy next; notes how he follows every move the girl makes with his eyes and keeps the ones showing her too much interest at bay.

Chuck doesn't look away when she opens her eyes and finds him looking; lets her gaze travel across his frame. He knows that look in her eyes all too well – has seen it staring back at him from the reflection in the mirror more times than he wishes to dwell on.

He looks away, and when he returns his attention to her she is kissing that guy, holding on to him like she's drowning in the sea of dancers. Maybe she is.

It's still too hot, too crowded. Chuck makes his way through the crowd and scowls when someone bumps into him with surprising force.

Pathetic.

He knows that a part of him belongs here. That there is a part of him that doesn't deserve any better but fuck; he doesn't _want_ to be here.

He wants _more_. Aches for it. That's what love does; it makes it impossible to settle for less than everything.

The night is dark and cool around him in the alley behind the club, the music only a distant thumping once the door closes behind him.

He finds a joint in his inside pocket and lights it - allows the familiar routine to calm his racing heart - releasing the smoke from his lungs as he leans back against the wall.

With his eyes closed the sounds and the chill in the air could belong to New York.

He doesn't look up when he hears the door being opened. Doesn't turn his head in direction of the footsteps even when someone stops right next to him.

He's not really there.

"Have any more of that?"

He looks up to find the girl from inside standing next to him, shivering in her thin jacket. Blue, slightly unfocused eyes fixed firmly on him.

He holds the joint out for her and almost pulls his hand away when she doesn't reach out and take it, but leans in instead.

Standing closer now she tilts her head to the side, watching him intently as she exhales.

"Thanks."

"Anything for a lady in need," he drawls, taking small comfort in the familiar persona of 'Chuck Bass'. It's been a while.

"You're not from around here"

"Neither are you." She startles and he smirks, takes another hit. "It doesn't help, you know."

"What doesn't?"

"Running away."

Her eyes widen in some vague emotion he can't quite pin down, but she recovers quickly. This time she accepts the glowing joint from his fingers and puts it to her lips. Moments filled with nothing but crisp night air and the sweet smell of weed pass before she speaks again,

"I'm not running."

She turns to hand him back his smoke and stumbles a little; crashing into his shoulder as her hand close around his wrist. The almost-fall breaks the spell, and he notices how both of them are holding their breath when dark eyes lock with blue. Things are hazy for a second and they find themselves caught in a bubble of intimacy made up by banter and that sensation of recognizing part of yourself in someone else.

Terrified of, and aching for, the same thing. Searching for ways to make sure they never get it.

He knows without a doubt that they would destroy each other.

She seems to know it too but still buries her nose in the expensive cotton covering his shoulder, inhaling deeply, before standing up straight. The hand that's still holding the joint is trembling a little.

"You smell nice," she offers, and his brief, hoarse laughter cuts through the silence of the alleyway. "I'm not running," she repeats, and he doesn't reply – simply shrugs. Whatever gets her through the night.

She offers him the joint back, but he shakes his head; suddenly nauseous at the idea of smoking any more. "Keep it."

He begins to walk away but is interrupted by her voice. "What, no more words of wisdom for me?"

He turns around, smirking at the mocking tone of her question.

"Stay away from roof tops," he offers after a moment's thought, then adds, "Go home."

She doesn't reply, simply stares, and he suddenly realizes how young she is and how weary she looks. He is just about to turn around again when she speaks,

"Maybe I don't know where home is anymore."

He wasn't expecting that amount of honesty and looking at her he can tell she hadn't planned on sharing as much either.

"If you didn't know then you'd have nothing to run away from."

Or 'no one', his mind corrects him silently.

"I'm not-"

"Go home."

She doesn't object this time, but turns her face away as she flicks the burned out joint to the ground. He watches her until the door closes behind her, but she doesn't look at him again.

Filling his lungs with cool, night air that smells like determination and something vaguely hopeful Chuck heads in the other direction. No longer running blindly but walking with a destination.

It's time to go back home.


End file.
